Blood and Kohl
by BonGarland
Summary: Alternative ending to The Wolfman. Lawrence isn't killed, he's given another chance at a normal life, a life with Gwen. If they can survive long enough...
1. Chapter 1

**Hi guys! I'm back, with a different fandom and universe to work with. I was very dissatisfied with the ending to The Wolfman (2010), but I LOVED the movie, and thus have reworked it to suit my tastes! Please read, review, share, enjoy! - Bon**

* * *

Death was filling the entirety of Gwen Conliffe's vision, embodied by a massive set of snarling fangs, claws ready to rip and rend flesh, and eyes glowing with malice. The beast had followed her from the burning wreckage of the Talbot mansion; the smell of musk and smoke had heralded its arrival in the darkness, though the feeble warning could not have done her any good. The creature was inescapable, even if she hadn't been backed against a cliff, beyond which was a raging waterfall, her surroundings cloaked in darkness when the full moon was enshrouded momentarily by cloud cover. Her senses, speed, everything was inadequate against this nefarious being.

It had stalked out of the darkness, forming a murky shape in the gloom that meant only certain death for the young woman, whose only crime was love for the man whom the wolfish thing had been, only moments before. All that currently remained of the human's existence were the torn and bloodstained garments – shredded shirtsleeves, ripped trousers - that hung from the monster's frame, a sadistic reminder that Lawrence Talbot shared a shell, somehow, with the epitome of this moon-influenced curse.

As it lumbered towards Gwen, she gave a strangled sob, shuffling backwards until her booted foot snagged on a stone, bringing her down on her back with a jarring thud, the pistol she had held skittering away from her reach.

Immediately the creature was fully upon her, straddling her like a lover, pinning her by her lower body as she supported herself on scraped palms. Glistening fangs, led by a snuffling muzzle, moved towards her face, as the creature sniffed her deeply, growling slightly all the while.

Gwen swallowed thickly, trying to keep calm and still, avoiding alarming the being that could, she knew, remove her head from her shoulders with a weak swipe of its clawed digits. She settled for raising, very slowly, a pleading hand, the quaking appendage moving towards the wolfman's features.

At last her fingers gained purchase, in the coarse fur covering its neck, and the wolf snarled in alarm, recoiling slightly before settling back into her touch, yellow eyes analyzing her hand before determining she wasn't a threat. The thing's entire body seemed to calm, growls diminishing, the malice in the yellow gaze muted before her very eyes.

Gasping in another shuddering breath, not daring to hope she would live, that he would, Gwen tried to speak. "L-lawrence…?"

A gleam of recognition shone in the beast's features, as the gruesome head cocked to one side, nostrils wiggling in an attempt to locate her in the deep recesses of the man's mind. Claws retracted to its side, though it remained pinning her by the hips to the rough ground, where jagged stones still gouged into her other palm.

The uneasy silence, which had elicited a shred, a spark, a tiny ray of hope in Gwen's chest, was broken by the distant baying of hounds and muffled shouts by what had to be policemen, joining Aberline in his pursuit of Gwen and the monster. Panic shot through Gwen's entire consciousness, as the monster above her froze, head turning slowly, eerily, to face the direction of the intruding noises. Would it kill her now?

It did not flee before the policemen, neither did it lurch forward to eviscerate any in his path. The wolfman stayed in its odd position, crouched over Gwen's quivering form, she closing her eyes tightly and muttering some scarcely-remembered childhood prayer as the officers entered the clearing that ended at the ledge. The waterfall raged on, cascading waters uninterrupted by the potential life and death struggle occurring on the cliffs that formed its banks.

The beast shifted on its haunches, a claw moving back to brush against Gwen's shoulder, as if reassuring itself she was there; the contact sent a bolt through her, and as she opened her eyes, the claw retreated, ghastly digits curling into fists at the wolf's side, a single, elongated snarl escaping its curled lips, which displayed those wickedly curved fangs, shining like beacons in the momentary moonlight, to the policemen who were unsteadily walking towards the being that had plagued London and Blackmoor for far too long.

Aberline was in front, favoring his bitten arm, but still maintaining a steady grip on the pistol he had aimed at the monster as he advanced, staggering ever so slightly. "Don't make a move, Talbot."

The beast growled in response, obviously comprehending the tone of voice and implied threat the pistol represented. At this point, the other four policemen had formed a semi-circle cutting off the beast, and moved forward in sync, all a single step behind Aberline's bloody form.

With an abrupt movement, the wolfman lurched to its feet, stretching to its full height and howling agitatedly towards the moon, casting a silvery glow that encompassed the entire clearing. As the wolf rose, Gwen struggled to her feet, free from its weight, and the movement alarmed one of the officers, whose jerk of surprise triggered his gun; his action in turn spurred the others on to fire as well, and a hail of bullets flew past Aberline, towards the beast.

None of his underlings' guns held silver bullets, Aberline mused, warily watching the monster to see its reaction. There wasn't much, other than the dull thud of bullets hitting flesh resounding around the clearing. Except…

When a small female whimper sounded, Aberline's blood ran cold, his body stiffening as his eyes closed in anguish. There was a soft thump as Gwen Conliffe crumpled onto the bruising terrain comprising the waterfall's high banks, her slender form sprawling across the moss-covered stones just as the men, horrified, lowered their guns.

The already-enraged creature turned, in what seemed like slow motion, letting out a canine sort of gasp, and a soft whine, when it saw the young woman crumpled on the ground. The men were doubly-astounded by the humanoid reaction, and all but Aberline cried out in panic when the beast let loose a furious howl, a horrific shrieking noise; the emission was followed by the clattering of dropped pistols and unsteady footfalls as they all took several paces back from the commanding officer and the scene before them.

Aberline could only watch, helpless, as the moon, freshly-emerged from another clump of clouds, illuminated a spreading red stain across Miss Conliffe's pale gray dress.

* * *

The beast, now completely disregarding the humans, crouched over her motionless form, a tentative claw touching her shoulder gently.

Another keening wail escaped its lungs when there was no visible response, and of course, none of the men were close enough to see if she still breathed, still lived, if they hadn't mortally wounded the only innocent among them. As they watched silently, the creature gathered her limp body to its chest, cradling Gwen even as the men groaned at the sight of a pale arm hanging apparently-lifeless at her side.

When it lifted her completely from the ground, deadly nails wrapped around her waist and legs, the men seemed to snap out of a trance, moving ahead to again flank Aberline. The inspector in question was already rapidly compiling a story to tell Miss Conliffe's family, considering funeral arrangements and final respects and laying the body to rest, set against letting this beast take it away to be _devoured_, for surely they all knew its motives in clutching her.

With a gruff command, he ordered the men to retrieve their arms if they could, and do all possible to retrieve the girl from the beast. They complied shakily, damning themselves for not thinking more clearly, starting towards the monster with loud shouts and menacing gestures; for it had nowhere to go, backed up to the cliff's edge and burdened as it was.

It shocked them anew when it gave a growl that echoed around the clearing, backing closer to the cliff's edge with its precious charge, holding the men at bay with its fierce yellow gaze. When it reached the edge, it glanced over the side, into the turmoil of the waterfall, where it led, and other sodden ledges that could provide a ladder downward. Descent would be deadly, absolutely; to any other being.

With a small huffing noise, the wolfman leapt over the side of the cliff, Gwen still cushioned against its broad chest in a powerful grip.  
The remaining humans in the clearing could only stare, slack-jawed, at the spot where the beast had stood not a moment before, dazedly moving forward to peer cautiously over the edge into the raging waters. No trace was left of the creature, and as for Gwen, only a small patch of crimson, staining the stone that had lain beneath her, was any evidence she had been there also.

Aberline gave a gusty, weary sigh, dropping to his knees and grimacing, his good hand moving to support his wounded arm and shoulder. "We're going to assume she's still alive, and that it won't kill her. We're going to look, and hard. I wouldn't be that creature's prisoner for all the wealth in the world, and that's the position the poor girl's in, because of us."

* * *

Birds chirped, morning dew saturated much of the forest, and a root was digging painfully into Gwen's side. That was all she knew as she groggily came to, at least partway; she could scarcely open her eyes, her limbs felt heavy, and pain shot through her left shoulder when she tried to raise her arm.

At her whimper of pain, she heard a rustling noise, and, panicking, tried to frantically turn her gaze from the tree trunk a few steps away to see what it was.

Suddenly, strong fingers encircled her forearm, effectively halting her movements; a thumb began to trace circles against the fabric covering her wrist, and a familiar voice hushed her as the sensations soothed her.

"Lawrence…?" She mumbled, realizing who knelt before her when she rolled back to her original position. The fog suddenly left her mind, and she gasped, sitting upright in a flash, wavering when dizziness struck her. She spotted a large bandage covering her left shoulder, where the fabric of her dress had been cut away to provide access to a flesh wound, which, by the throbbing, had begun to bleed anew at her motion.

"Shh, it's me," the man crooned, in a soft tone unexpected of his formidable form. Both of his arms caged her waist as he steadied her, gently moving her to sit against the base of the tree next to them. "You've been hurt."

She bit back a joking reply that she could see as well as feel that, instead raising her eyes and scanning the forest surrounding the small clearing they were in. "What happened?"

At the sight of her trying to subtly rub her hands together for warmth, Lawrence, somehow fully clothed, moved forward to drape his jacket over her shoulders, with the utmost care, like she was a breakable doll. Though, she'd proven she was anything but that.

"I changed…again," he began in a ragged whisper. "I killed – destroyed – ended my father and the beast he had been all these years, and then I came after you…" He was cut off by the furious shaking of her head. "No, Lawrence, it wasn't _you_ at that point, don't you understand?"

He stayed silent, swiping dirt solemnly from her skirts with trembling fingertips.

"I'm still here," Gwen insisted, laying a pale hand on his forearm, shaking it slightly. "Do you know what we should do next?"

"You'll…probably be labeled as missing, presumed dead…" He began in a dull murmur, "So we should probably leave the area…Pay our final respects to Ben maybe, and then somehow get some horses…But you need to be well enough."

"I'm perfectly fine Lawrence, I've endured devastating fevers and horseback injuries in my lifetime," Gwen assured him, reaching her good arm behind her for leverage as she rose, leaning back against the tree. "Food and water, though…"

Lawrence fidgeted sheepishly, bringing a grin to her face. "What've you done?"

He produced a flask filled with cool water, and unwrapped a partial loaf of bread. "I may have visited the nearest farm earlier this morning, once I'd changed back…I'm sure they would understand."

Her infectious smile curved his own lips, and she took a few mouthfuls of bread, sipping the water gingerly as her eyes roamed the lightening sky. "I would like to visit Ben, it will likely be a long absence, if we ever do return."

* * *

They had hit a lucky break, being able to sneak into Gwen's rented lodgings at the inn in Blackmoor to retrieve some clothing and effects before making their way to the churchyard. Gwen wore her darkest dress and a black veil left over from Ben's funeral, not altogether lying as she posed as a mourning widow at the cemetery, Lawrence standing close behind with a fedora pulled low over his eyes and a black scarf wrapped about his throat.

Gwen crouched and laid a few wildflowers she'd gathered at the foot of the mausoleum, not wanting to enter. She waited a moment, eyes reading and rereading the names inscribed on the outside of the mausoleum; Lawrence and Ben's mother, Ben, soon, the remains of their father…And perhaps, one day, Lawrence.

Suppressing a shiver, Gwen returned her gaze to the flowers she'd lain, rearranging them as tastefully as she could manage. When she rose and dusted off her gloved hands, a shred of white, flailing in the wind, caught her eye.

She quickly mounted the steps to the mausoleum door, where a piece of parchment was hastily pinned with a nail into part of the wooden frame. "Lawrence…"

Her words snapped him out of his solemn reverie, and he stepped to Gwen's side as she retrieved the paper, reading just a few words, looking as though they were scrawled quickly, the letters misshapen, as if unfamiliar to the writer. It simply read "Maleva help. Our people go to Scotland. Follow, watch moon."

A delicate brow was elevated as she read the scrap over and over, but Gwen's expression soon morphed to a quiet hopefulness. "Do you think…They'll really help us? She said there was nothing to be done before, but…"

Lawrence pulled the paper gently from her grasp, rereading it himself. "It's our only chance. Gypsies are notoriously mysterious, but they would know more than anyone about this, I think. Fancy a holiday in Scotland, m'lady?" He joked lightly, adopting a pompous accent that gave Gwen a glance at the actor, the Lawrence Talbot most knew and revered. She smiled, shivering in the cutting breeze that had arisen. "Yes, we've got to try."

She knelt at the base of the mausoleum again, pressing chilled lips against gloved fingertips in a kiss, transferring them to the frigid stone steps in a final affectionate goodbye to Ben, before backing away briskly, linking arms with Lawrence. He shouldered a heavy pack he'd put together, though it didn't seem to bother him, and led her into the lane running behind the graveyard, illuminated by light of the early dawn.

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**Thank you! ~xoxo Bon**


	2. Chapter 2

**And I present, part two of Blood and Kohl. ~Bon**

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A feminine voice hissed loudly in pain, the noise echoing off tree trunks and foliage, startling a flock of crows from their resting positions on a towering oak's limbs. Irritably, they circled the tree a few times in unison, searching for danger, before returning to their original positions warily.

Lawrence grinned slightly at the sound. "What happened to fevers and horseback injuries?" He asked quietly, moving a square of whiskey-soaked material from Gwen's uncovered wound.

She shot him a glare, before smiling herself, holding her arm still as Lawrence re-wrapped the wound. They'd been extremely fortunate; it was a shallow surface wound, the bullet having scraped by, causing copious immediate bleeding that had soon stemmed.

"In my defense, I was given a little more than field treatment for those ailments," she joked, frowning when Lawrence averted his gaze, concentrating needlessly on packing away supplies. "I'm ony jesting Lawrence, it is what it is. This hiding in the woods like bandits won't last forever, and in the interim, it's a bit of an adventure. Soon you'll be perfectly fine, and we can return to normality. Or as close as we can get…" She trailed off when his chagrined gaze met hers, comforting words abandoning her. Instead, her wound treatment completed for the day, she pulled her cloak back over her shoulders, and pulled him to her in a tight embrace.

They simply held each other for what could have been minutes, hours…It didn't matter. At last Lawrence pulled back with a sigh, running a hand through his dark locks. "It's really all my fault." He refused to speak any more, leaving Gwen to stare in concern at his turned back.

By her calculations, they were little more than a days' ride from the highlands of Scotland, and she clung to that steadfastly. Melancholy was now regularly coloring Lawrence's moods and actions, and she could only hope they found release from this curse soon.

* * *

A few hours later, the sun was beginning to set, painting everything in its wake with shadows, and the horizon blood red. The long stretches of riding were wearing on Gwen; despite her upfront bravado, she was losing weight; fatigue leaned heavily on her posture astride her mare day in and day out. None of this was lost on Lawrence, who began to fear he should have left her behind.

They had passed beyond the town they had initially planned to stay in, by several miles, because of a paper boy they had passed in a village a few hours' ride from Blackmoor. "Extra! Extra!" he had cried, waggling a paper at passerbys. "Confirmed madman running rampant with abducted lady!" It was sensational news for the sleepy county, and undoubtedly the boy had more than fulfilled his sales quota for the day. Worse than the headline, the paper's front page was adorned with two large illustrations, headshots of Lawrence and Gwen themselves. Gwen had worn the hood of her cloak lower on her face ever since then, and kept a scarf wrapped about her hair at other times, scrambling for any method to remain unrecognized.

Now, as Gwen jerked upright in her saddle once more, blinking furiously, Lawrence decided he'd had enough for the night. Luckily, they had entered an even sleepier county, where sheep outnumbered people, and manners were an afterthought. It was a double-edged blade however, as Gwen's finery and mannerisms would stand out; disheveled and exhausted as she was, she was a striking lady.

"There's a town right over this hill, we'll stop there for the night. It seems isolated enough that we should have a fair chance of going unrecognized." His voice cut through Gwen's consciousness, and she tried to covertly pass a hand over her face in an attempt to cover a wide yawn. Lawrence sidled his stallion up alongside her mount, reaching across the saddle horn for her reins. "Just relax, it'll only be a few more moments, Gwen." She smiled her thanks at his small gesture, stretching her arms above her head and rotating her neck from side to side, alleviating some stiffness. He maintained control of her horse until they reached the edge of the small town, and even the brief reprieve dulled the burning in her shoulder resulting from holding the reins all day.

The town was a small dot on the map, a generally useless piece of parchment Gwen had carried with her on the race back to Blackmoor before Sir John was confronted. The roads were comprised of dirt and loose stones; a bit of rain would annihilate any respectability the poor walkways held. The walk from the sole inn in town to the stables was unfortunately the greatest distance between two points in the place, to their dismay; the small village was apparently quite unaccustomed to providing much in the way of accommodations.

Lawrence decided to leave Gwen at the lobby to procure lodgings, if the shabby front room of the decrepit, converted house could be called such. He would be proceeding with the horses to the stables himself so she could avoid unnecessary strain on her still-healing injury.

Shivering in the early autumn evening's breeze, Gwen rubbed her arms for warmth as she approached the poorly-maintained wooden steps to the building, wincing when she grazed her wound. She stepped into the aging structure, the loud creaking of the front door alerting any and all inhabitants to her presence without her making any further attempt. The man at the front desk, dozing a moment before, stirred, snorting loudly and blinking cloudy eyes at her approach.

"I was hoping to rent two rooms," she began, hands fidgeting at her sides as his rapidly-clearing gaze roamed up and down her figure with interest. At last he grunted in what had to have been assent, his paunch jiggling as he turned to retrieve two rusty keys from hooks on the wall behind him. Turning back to Gwen, he swung the keys around one chubby finger, simultaneously gesturing with the other hand as he named an exorbitant price that she'd have paid for upscale lodgings in London. She narrowed her eyes, sighing in resignation as she slapped the required coins on the counter, trying to avoid contact with the grimy surface.

He handed her the keys, and gave her short, unhelpful directions to the rooms, and she left, skirts rustling in her haste to vacate the lobby. The man then arched a brow at the room's only other inhabitant, a man in a dark greatcoat, the brim of his timeworn hat pulled low over his eyes. But he caught the gesture, nodding before tossing back the rest of a dusty glass filled with cheap whiskey, and heading for the door.

* * *

Gwen made her way around the building, noting a crowd of raucous young men gathered on the porch of the pub across the way. As she circumvented the lengthy hedgerow separating the lobby from the backside of the house, where the rented rooms were, she noted with mild anxiety that a few of the men peeled off the group and began to follow her, ambling jauntily and whistling.

She paused, straightened her skirts and taking a deep breath, before continuing towards the rooms, inspecting the keys she held. She reminded herself she had to be especially careful; men in the country were less…Respectful of the rules of society, and she was typically chaperoned by her father or Ben when in the countryside. Darting a glance behind her, she saw the men gaining on her, and swallowed hastily, double-checking the faded numbers engraved on the keys again. When she looked up, she stopped short, having nearly run into a tall man in a dark coat.

"P..Pardon me," she smiled weakly, moving to navigate around the man. But he matched her steps, and again barred her way. "I'm sorry, can I help you sir…?"

"I reckon you can," he ground out, a smirk twisting his grizzled face with glee. "Been a while since the boys and I had a pretty toy, and you look like you could use some company, pretty lady. May I escort you to yer room?" He proffered an arm in a rough imitation of ballroom manners, and Gwen looked behind her to see the other men had reached them, and spread out behind her. Where on earth was Lawrence?

"I'm…I'm quite alright, thank you." She summoned a strong tone, waving away the offer of his arm. "I've a gentleman companion who should be arriving any moment, but I do appreciate the concern. From all of you." She tipped a nod at the men behind her, whose brows furrowed in unison, arms folding as they shuffled close enough that she could smell the whiskey on their breath. The combined stench was revolting even in the chilly air, and she tried to step around the tall man, the leader perhaps, once again. "Good day to you all."

As she passed the man, she found her upper arm trapped within his meaty fist, halting her progress and sending a wave of fresh pain cascading over her senses as he unknowingly applied pressure to her wound. "I don't think ye understand, ma'am. Yer comin' with us whether you like it or not, ol' Larry and us, we have an agreement. First pick of the…" he raked a gaze over her, "…nice guests."

Was there no law enforcement in the town? Gwen tried in vain to wrest her arm from his grasp, but only succeeded in find her other arm ensnared as well, by one of the other men, whose particularly long nails dug through the wool of her cloak and satin of her dress as he pulled her along as well.

She still held the keys, though; after a moment of thought, Gwen relaxed her posture, her body going limp and displaying signs of defeat. She quiet walked a few paces with the men on either side, tightening a hand around the key handles so that the other ends poked out from her clenched fist. Then she swung her arm up abruptly, ramming the blades of the keys into the smaller man's neck, his howl of outrage startling the tall man into releasing her arm. She darted forward, swiveling to see the group converge, prowling towards her as one, even as the injured man held a hand to his windpipe and gasped indignantly.

"Shouldn'ta done that, pretty lady," the leader growled, his tone oozing menace as she found her back against a railing. There was nowhere to go. "Shoulda gone quietly. Now we'll be rough as we please." Gwen's breath quickened and she raked fingers through the previously-pinned curls of her hair that had come loose in the struggle, craning her neck to see over the approaching men, to find Lawrence.

A short, burly man out of the group reached her first, yelling as he pounced, latching meaty fingers around her slender waist easily. Before Gwen could do more than inhale a gasp of air, a figure vaulted the railing to her back, landing next to her and lifting the man off of her by a single hand around his throat. Gwen was sent reeling backwards with the momentum, barely catching herself on the fence, a hand clutched to her middle as her corset and stays protested all her movement.

The figure who had moved with inhuman speed and agility raised her attacker ever further in the air, huffing with anger. As the ruffian gurgled helplessly, limbs flailing in desperation for air, the others backed up a few steps, halting to see what was in their midst. As far as they could tell, it was a normal man, clad in coat, shirt and neckcloth, but…he could not be normal, not with that strength. And the predatorial gleam in his eyes was unmatched, even by these men and their histories, their crimes and habits.

Gwen took the chance to back away, gathering her cloak back around her shivering frame, uttering a silent prayer and thanks for impeccable timing. But simultaneously…Something in the back of her mind shouted that this wasn't right, that it wasn't time for the full moon and how was he channeling this power, at this moment?

She was distracted from that inner voice when her savior clenched enraged fingers further around his victim's neck, exerting phenomenal pressure on his windpipe that would kill within seconds. He managed a feeble "please…" among the guttural gasps escaping his closing airway. Gwen swallowed with difficulty, summoning the plea that would be most effective. "Lawrence. Please. I'm alright."

At her soft tone, her rescuer's grip slackened, his breathing slowing, though he did not release the thug.

She tried again, her voice fortified by panic. "_Lawrence. Stop." _

At the repeated command, the message appeared to infiltrate the haze of animalistic fury, and he tossed the man at the others with little more than a flick of the wrist. His movements were jerky, animalistic, as he stalked slowly forward, his fingertips curled as if claws adorned their ends.

The force employed, and the sight of this _thing _approaching sent the ruffians tumbling over each otherm and scrambling in the decreasing visibility to find each other, and retrieve the fallen comrade. That done, two slung each of his arms over a shoulder, and the group slunk off into the darkness, muttering promises of revenge.

Lawrence stood looking at their retreating forms, an enraged snarl still upon his lips as he drew heaving breaths, limbs quivering, as if in contemplation of pursuit.

Crisis averted, Gwen sank to her knees in the dirt with a small whimper, a hand moving to her hurt arm unconsciously. She was in a mild state of shock from the adrenaline coursing through her veins and the stress of the preceding moments. Lawrence was snapped out of his bestial reverie by the movement, concern overriding any other feelings in the moment. He dashed to her side, kneeling and taking stock of her person. "Gwen?"

She took a shuddering breath, attempting a smile, and grabbed one of his hands, turning it palm up and dropping the keys in it. "Rooms…acquired."

He went silent, eyeing the keys, and managed a smile that didn't reach his own eyes. "So I see."

* * *

Gwen managed to make it to her room on her own, shooing Lawrence away as she closed the door, locking it and sinking back against the worn wood with a sigh. Ever since she had met Lawrence, the limits of her being had been tested. Physical, emotional, her restraint, all of it. And yet…Maybe she was mad, but she wouldn't change her situation for the world.

Heaving herself to her weary feet again, Gwen crossed the room to the luggage Lawrence had brought her earlier. After cleaning her face and as much of herself as she could manage with tired and aching limbs, she managed to braid her hair, pulling on her single nightgown and settling onto the lumpy mattress. She was hoping the gypsies would have some sort of clothes laundering method…

Unable to rest despite her bodily fatigue, she finally pulled one of her hastily-packed tomes on lycanthropy from her carpetbag, opening it to one of the end chapters, on exploratory cures. She doubted the author had ever encountered lycanthropy itself, likely compiling the books' material from scattered tales told by frightened superstitious old hags, and a bit of imagination, but she needed something to go on, something to fuel her hope beyond dubious gypsy promises scrawled on old parchment.

When she had been reading for some time, having managed a few bites of the meager rations Lawrence had gathered, there was a loud creak outside her door. The noise chilled her to the bone, and Gwen slowly laid down her book, staring at the closed door, anticipating any more sounds. Nothing more happened in the next few moments, so she gathered the volume in her lap again after glancing at the fire, assuring herself it had made the noise, and that it had enough wood for the night.

At length she began to doze, the heavy book threatening to tumble from her limp grasp. When it finally did, landing on the floor with a loud thump, Gwen awoke with a sharp gasp, her gaze searching every corner of the room for what had caused the disturbance. When she looked down and saw the volume on the ground, she rolled her eyes, chastising herself for the sudden nerves she was displaying. Then a brisk knock came at the door, startling her anew.

"Gwen?" A quiet call came from outside. "May I come in?" It was Lawrence, and Gwen gave her consent for him to enter, slightly breathless with relief. He did so with trepidation, glancing in every direction when he stepped across the threshold, his gaze avoiding lingering on her nightdress-clad form. "I heard a noise…"

She brought a hand to her chest in an attempt to steady her racing heart, smiling thinly and nodding towards the tome on the floor. "I dropped my book…"

He moved to lift it from the ground, raising a quizzical brow when he scanned the title. She blushed. "Just…researching…" His mouth quirked in a half-smile, but he merely placed it on the rickety bedside table wordlessly.

His neckcloth was removed, his waistcoat hanging open and the first few buttons of his shirt undone, and Gwen found herself staring at the exposed skin for far longer than was appropriate. Jerking her gaze away, she cleared her throat, just as he did, from his position near the door. He spoke first. "Well, if you're alright…" He turned to grab the doorknob, but Gwen calling his name softly stopped him, and he turned to scan her suddenly-nervous expression.

"I'm…not," she confessed, keeping her eyes downcast, clenching her hands in the cheap quilt spread across her bed. "Could you…That is…Stay, please?"

He raised a brow, but dropped his hand from the doorknob, instead pulling the lock taut. Gwen must have forgotten that…Perhaps she was still in a minor state of shock from the attack earlier. Indeed, her hands were white-knuckled, with the bedspread in a vice grip. He moved immediately to the bed, abandoning all sense of propriety and seating himself on top of the covers, grabbing one of her hands and rubbing it between his own. "Of course."

After a moment, Gwen spoke tentatively. "I couldn't help but notice the strength you displayed today…"

Lawrence's grip on her hand tightened as he grimaced, nodding. "Some of the…curse's characteristics seem to have…assimilated into my very being. I'm…in control of myself, almost completely. That is, my anger is a little dangerous, but…I would never willingly put you in danger, Gwen. And seeing you in it quite unravels me."

She smiled ruefully, placated by the explanation for now, laying her other hand over his comfortingly, which held her other in a near death grip. "I know, Lawrence. I know."

They remained like that, reclining side by side, fingers interlaced, Gwen reopening her book to read, hoping to lull herself back to sleep with the paltry hope the paragraphs presented.

Lawrence read over her shoulder, his frown deepening as he progressed. When Gwen had fallen asleep, he removed the volume from her hands, laying it aside, and releasing a quiet sigh. He was convinced the only cure would be a bullet through his brain.

* * *

**xoxo Bon**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi guys! Back with another installment of Blood and Kohl... **

**One little note about this chapter; it was a little difficult to translate what I wanted to explain, into what Milena would say, per se. Given her accent, assumed knowledge of English, etcetera, she may seem a little too well-spoken. But I digress; I tried to convey accurately what I wanted to. Please enjoy. xo**

* * *

The gypsy camp was an exact replica of the one that had settled in the hills around Blackmoor several months ago. Dogs roamed, smoke billowed from fires cooking questionably-obtained meats, children played mutely around wagons comprising the caravan. The camp was given its usual quiet soundtrack, the flipping of cards and soft Slavic mutters the only things audible from many tents, where naïve Englishmen and women came to trade coins for cosmic advice.

Gwen herself had never been to the actual camp, as it was deemed the most improper of paces for young unwed ladies to linger, and Ben had never offered to take her along as he negotiated the gypsies' stay durations. She now saw no substance to the warnings, as this place represented hope and aid. She smiled warmly in the midday light as two children staring at her as they entered the camp on horseback. The children stared solemnly back, probably taught to be distrusting of English folk, before breaking into little shrieks, chasing each other as they raced into the maze of wagons that made the camp, presumedly announcing the newcomers' arrival.

Lawrence reached across the gap between their horses, his hand seeking Gwen's, squeezing it tightly when their fingers met and interlaced. She sent him a bolstering smile, and they turned in unison to the older gypsy man approaching. In faltering English, he said their horses would be attended to, that he knew who they were, and that Milena would see them now. He then gestured to two young men, who moved forward to take their reins as they dismounted.

Gwen was, ashamedly, a little surprised no one had demanded payment yet. She'd been led to believe nothing was free from a gypsy, that all services followed crossing a palm with silver; and this was the biggest service she could imagine. Still, as they were led past practicing knife throwers and bickering old ladies seated around a crackling fire, no mention of currency was made. Gwen held fast to Lawrence's hand as they passed the mangy bear who had been originally accused of being the beast ravaging Blackmoor folk; the animal in question shuffled nervously as Lawrence passed, recoiling as far as its chain would allow.

At last they arrived in front of what seemed to be the most embellished of all the wagons; curtains made of glass beads shone in the early light as a breeze rose, parting them and allowing a glimpse inside. The wind carried out the strong, cloying scent of incense, and a clear female voice was heard speaking Romanian, raised in argument it seemed, as they approached the glittering doorway.

The man leading them parted the curtain to allow them entrance, but not before a young gypsy girl, somewhere in her early twenties, flung herself out of the wagon, muttering to herself and casting a dark glare at Gwen and Lawrence as she passed. An older, weaker voice called for them to come in, and as they entered, Gwen first, the owner of this voice became visible, an elderly lady, nearly folded in upon herself with age, seated at a small table covered with dark velvet. She nodded in recognition at Gwen, who nodded gravely in turn, having sought her aid before; Milena then turned a fond smile upon Lawrence, who smiled back faintly; he didn't recall her being the one who had treated him for the turning wound.

She bade them take a seat at the small round table, as she refreshed a low-burning rod of incense in the middle of its surface. Her colorfully-patterned skirt whirled about her ankles as she moved in the confined space, putting one deck of cards away and retrieving another, and asking if they wanted tea. It seemed she was stalling for time, but Gwen and Lawrence both accepted eagerly, parched from their journey. It was a fortifying brew, refreshingly made from fresh herbs, nothing like the desiccated flakes Gwen was accustomed to making tea from, and she inhaled the steam from her mug eagerly.

Milena was still clattering about, slow as she was, still evading the reason they were there, the reason they had trekked across Britain to find the caravan, the reason dozens were dead. Avoiding the elephant in the room that was not an elephant at all, but a snarling, carnivorous monster.

With Lawrence beginning to shift uneasily, doubting that they would find much aid here after all, and Gwen's pleading stare burning a hole in her back, the elderly Roma finally faced them, heaving herself wearily into her chair with a resigned sigh. She took a few moments to shuffle her deck, laying out several cards in an intricate design on the worn velvet covering the table; her expression grew grimmer with each flick of a card. Gwen's eyes followed her movements robotically, and she dimly thanked heaven that the one gypsy who could aid them, happened to have the best English, as well. Maybe they were not so star-crossed after all.

Gwen finally spoke up, after glancing at Lawrence, whose agitation had coalesced into a nervous tapping of one booted foot against the wagon's wooden floor. "Madame Milena, is there a cure after all? You led me to believe that-", she drew a breath, "…that death was the only outcome of this curse. I'd like to know once and for all, so I can plan accordingly."

Milena raised an amused brow at Gwen's determined tone, the resolve she could see in the younger lady's eyes, in the defiant tilt to her chin. Still, she had a reputation to uphold, did she not, as a whimsically-toned, mysterious gypsy, and so she spoke a piece of truth they already knew, to prolong her performance. "You have fire, my child, but it cannot burn this curse."

Gwen's upbringing had always enforced politeness, respect, and the holding of one's tongue if the desired utterance was not socially proper; but she was growing frustrated at this point. How had Ben dealt with these people for so long, the verbal labyrinths and colorfully-worded repetitions?

Milena grinned, reaching a gnarled hand across the table to pat Gwen's. "I know you have not much time, my child, and so I will tell you, for all our sake's." She gestured with almost motherly affection at Lawrence, encouraging him to finish his tea. "When I was a child, many, many years ago, there was one with the curse in the mountains where I lived, a woman. The man who loved her would not accept that this was the end, and so she killed, and killed, for he could not kill her, nor help her. But an elder in the village, a very wise woman, she thought, and thought, and thought, while the beast killed. Finally, she believed she knew how to stop it. The cursed woman's lover would isolate her, trap her in a rural section of the mountains, chained in a cave, to prevent more damage if he failed, on the next full moon; of course no one else would risk their own safety to try this task. Once the moon rose, he would begin cutting her, with a blade of pure silver. Each hour, through the moon's cycle that night, he would wound her with the silver, though not grievously. This added more and more silver to the bloodstream, weakening the beast more and more through the night. It was hoped the silver would add up to a fatal amount, to the beast, but that the blood loss would not harm the human, too much. The problem was once the moon had risen, she would be changed, and so her lover would be at risk every hour on the hour, getting close enough to harm the creature. He also had to keep her restrained; the creature's strength was immeasurable, especially given the ferocity wounded animals tend to show."

Milena paused, letting the implications sink in, and refilling her tea, sipping before continuing the story. Lawrence noted with amusement that her accent became more and more pronounced as she reiterated the grim tale.

"The next morning, a group of trusted villagers, friends of the man, went up the mountain to find the man and bring him back. When they came to the cave, they found the lady inside, naked, covered in blood but otherwise now unharmed, cradling the dead body of her lover. When they could finally pry the corpse from her arms, they cut her with the blade again, to see if her flesh would still burn and smoke with the silver allergy. It did not, and they hoped the curse was gone. They brought her back to the village, and the man's body, burying him and leaving her to mourn alone. They had to wait until the full moon, to see if the curse was gone. Weeks passed, the man's grave growing over with grass and and weeds, before the next full moon approached. The same group of villagers took the woman, now quite mad with grief, up to the same cave, to see. The moon rose, and nothing happened. On their trip back, the lady broke free from then men, and threw herself off a cliff. The curse was broken, but at a terrible price. She had lived long enough to make sure her lover's work had not been in vain, and then she rushed to join him."

Milena fell silent, rising and squeezing Lawrence's forearm comfortingly as she moved past, whisking out the doorway curtain to give them some privacy to absorb the story.

* * *

The elderly gypsy wrapped her shawl tighter around her thin shoulders once she had stepped into the night air, moving through the camp. Past songs being sung around campfires, past the reprimands of mothers putting children to bed, past the snuffling of the dancing bear as it shifted in its sleep. At last she was far enough from the firelight to see the sky without a glare, and craned her neck, looking up to the stars. They could tell stories, the stars. But they, and the cards, and tea leaves; nothing was saying anything but Death to her, and yet she had to hope, for the two people currently in her wagon, for the love that had bloomed fully between them.

* * *

Both Lawrence and Gwen were silent, he rubbing a hand across his face as he leaned an elbow on the table, she slumped in her chair, ladylike posture abandoned for the moment in lieu of processing everything Milena had told them.

After a moment, Gwen leapt up, a feverish glint in her eyes. "So it's possible. All our hopes, it's…We can do this, Lawrence. I can do this, save you. We can be together."

"You mean I could be cured, at the potential cost of your life. I won't risk it." Lawrence rose as well, beginning to pace in the small space, raking agitated fingers through his hair. "We only have a couple of days until the next full moon…"

"Which is why we have to move, now," Gwen finished for him. "I refuse to let you go, to hand you over to the cruel hands of fate, to this curse. I won't do it, Lawrence. You cannot ask me to stand by while you do what, kill yourself? We have got to take this chance. It means everything to me. If you suffered for the rest of your life and I had done nothing…Or if I lose you to yourself, my life would not matter anyhow. Please. There is no time for debate."

"There is no debate, I will _not_ put you at risk, be responsible for harming a single hair on your head, Gwen. Don't you understand? I would cease to exist if anything happened to you…"

It seemed they were at an impasse incurred by the tendency to self-sacrifice, which both were now displaying.

Tears were filling Gwen's eyes, spilling down her porcelain cheeks as she crossed to him, laying a palm against his cheek, rough with stubble. "I will take every precaution. I will make it through this, and you will too. We could have our own lives again…"

He closed his eyes, leaning his cheek further into her grasp. "I am wanted for murder, on several accounts, and you are believed kidnapped or dead…Nothing will be normal now, Gwen."

"I don't care," she maintained defiantly, lifting her other hand to his face and forcing him to look at her. "I just want you, Lawrence, nothing else, and this curse is the only thing standing in our way. It would be simple enough to adopt a migrant lifestyle, maybe even with the gypsies..."

He was unconvinced, his mind only seeing images of Gwen bleeding, screaming, ripped apart, dying in his arms, as he had when in the asylum.

"Lawrence. I'm asking you to take this leap with me." Gwen was steadfast in her acceptance of Milena's suggestion, and she planned to garner nothing less than acceptance from him.

He raised his stricken gaze to Gwen's eyes, calm and blue like a lake on a summer day. His hands flew up to cover hers, tightly and almost to the point of pain, as if he were anchoring himself in contact with her, and gradually he thawed, finally whispering, "But with one condition." When she nodded in reassurance, he continued. "If I appear to be getting loose…If it seems too dangerous…I want you to _leave._ No matter how much control I appear to have, no matter how much of a grasp it seems I've gained over my other side…Who knows what would happen? I will not risk you any more than is necessary. Do you hear me?"

Gwen nodded, all the while telling herself she would not leave, no matter what, as long as the choice was in her power.

* * *

When their voices had fallen silent, the young gypsy girl from before entered the tent, giving a brisk nod to the both of them, and gesturing for them to follow her. The olive-skinned beauty led Gwen to one tent and Lawrence another, and they emerged back into the evening light wearing fresh, borrowed outfits. Gwen quite enjoyed the feel of the loose white blouse and vibrant green skirt, twirling in excitement like a child for a moment as she rejoined Lawrence by the nearest fire, earning a fond smile from him.

The gypsies were immensely kind and hospitable, seating them and tending to all needs, treating a scrape on Gwen's arm, feeding them some sort of rich stew for dinner, then giving them privacy afterwards.

To Gwen's dismay, Lawrence began to pace again, circling over and over; Gwen was unpleasantly reminded of the warnings hunters gave, to keep a fire lit when in the forest, to keep wolves at bay. The flickering flames danced across his handsome face, alternately illuminating and cloaking it in darkness, as if a metaphor for the war being fought inside him, the two entities coexisting. She could see him losing himself; the curse was chipping away, little by little, at everything that was Lawrence, and she could not let it continue.

The moon chose that moment to show itself, the nearly-full orb casting a wholly different light on Lawrence. A chilling reminder of what was yet to come.

* * *

**Hope that was enjoyable! ~xo Bon **


	4. Chapter 4

**Unfortunately, this is a bit of a filler chapter. I'm still sorting out the transformation in the next chapter, and I think we will be done after two more, total! Thank you for reading. -Bon **

* * *

It was the second dawn since the gypsy camp had been left behind, in favor of making haste to the Cairngorms, mountains in northern Scotland. The craggy slopes were riddled with caverns and deep crevices, and steadily dropping temperatures ensured a lack of recreational hunting and sport for several days. The region should be uninhabited, should anything go awry. Indeed, a light snow had already begun to fall as Gwen and Lawrence maneuvered their mounts along a steep, barely-there path, forcing them to increase their pace if they were ever to reach the cave described to them by Mileva. It had been used by the gypsies as a supply cache, until the unseasonably chilly autumn had forced them to leave it until spring at least. To supplement what they would find there, the gypsies had graciously traded their worn horses for sturdier mounts and replenished their food and water; a gift from their own blacksmith had appeared as well, the set of high-quality cuffs that were originally meant for restraining the bear.

The steel shackles were cold to the touch, thick, and unrelenting. They were of the durability the gravity of the situation, and the beast's strength, called for, and Gwen could not complain of the quality, though she saw the shaped metal as a grim reminder of the curse they fought. Binding, deadly, their necessity proof of the risks she took by participating in this rite.

All of the gifts were a pleasant surprise; as clearly terrified of Lawrence as many were, Mileva's people still offered what help and support they could. It broke Gwen's heart, seeing these people, so despised by the privileged society she had been raised immersed in, proving the most understanding. They not only believed in the curse, they were willing to house and aid Lawrence. That was more than she could say of anyone in London, and probably the rest of England. She would be indebted forever to the Roma.

* * *

The horses' hooves clacking against rocks on the path was the only noise to be heard, and Gwen had had enough. Gnawing on her chapped lips, she tried to think of a conversational topic that wouldn't upset Lawrence, and would pull him from the morose daze he would not be stirred from. His horse had been apparently sensing…_something_ about him, and had to be reined in often; the small bursts of protest, accompanied by shrill neighs, were occurring more and more, hindering their progress. Gwen could not blame the beast; for what lay dormant inside Lawrence could rip it to shreds in an instant.

They were reminded of that fact each evening, when the moon rose, progressively more and more circular in each night's inky sky.

Suppressing a shudder at that thought, Gwen spurred her horse up alongside Lawrence's, reaching out a hand to his slumped shoulders, attempting to offer some small bit of comfort. "Lawrence? Are you alright? Right now, I mean…" She fell silent at the ridiculous question, frowning as she rubbed his shoulder.

He leaned into her touch, sighing quietly. "It weighs on me…when the moon is close to full," he explained quietly. "It feels like a weight in my chest, and as if I could lose control at any moment. You saw my strength even several days ago. The wolf shows itself when it pleases, even outside the boundaries of the moon's cycle. It worries me, having you alone up in these isolated mountains, with this thing…inside me."

"But I am with you, Lawrence, and that's all that matters. Don't worry, it will be gone soon." Gwen's tone was strong and assuring, and her hand slid from his shoulder to grasp Lawrence's hand tightly. "Just trust me."

"I do nothing, if not that." His mouth quirked up in a half-smile, and they returned their eyes to the dubious trail before them.

* * *

Night had fallen, and thankfully, the pair had made it to the cave just before the sun had set completely. Lawrence had been amused to watch Gwen unsaddle her own horse; he was constantly astounded and simultaneously full of pride at how self-sufficient she could prove. He had no doubt she would be able to move on if he could not be saved…Shaking the morbid thoughts from his head, he finished tending to both horses, leaving them safely tethered under an overhanging ledge of rock outside the cave itself; he didn't think they would rest easily in an enclosed space with him, and perhaps they had a chance to escape if…

He was doing it again. _It_ was doing it again. Sinking its teeth into his mind, burrowing into his consciousness, deeper with every passing minute that the moon grew rounder. He would never look at the lunar monstrosity again, when this was all over, if he could manage.

He found Gwen at a point deep within the cave, already starting a fire, or attempting to. With a small grin he took the flint from her hands, starting it easily. She shrugged, throwing her hands up good-naturedly and muttering about some tasks being beyond her capabilities. As she moved towards the front of the cave where most of the supplies were being kept, calling out something about attending to her appearance, Lawrence sorted through the heavily-packaged supplies that comprised the gypsy cache. It was the usual, grain, rope, things that would not spoil or be harmed too badly by the environment they were being stored in.

After a time he returned to the fire, and still, Gwen had not returned. Growing worried that she may catch a chill, for the temperature was dropping rapidly, even in this shelter, he sought her out, finding her on her knees in front of one of their packs, staring at the manacles peeping out from the burlap material. When he grasped her hands, meaning to pull her up, a quiet sob escaped her lips, and one of her hands broke free to scrape through her hair, upsetting the bun it was held in.

"I…I don't want to chain you like an animal, Lawrence," she managed. "You don't deserve this and you never did and I just don't understand why you." She began to sob in earnest, and he only sighed quietly, finally succeeding in pulling her to her feet, and into his arms. Cupping the back of her head as she clung to his shirt, Lawrence shushed her, his other hand running up and down her spine, pressing her body as close to his as he could while her sobs quieted. In but a few short moments, she was composed again; Gwen Conliffe was never one prone to feminine hysterics, and he could hardly judge one small panic in the midst of the disaster that was currently his existence.

Mumbling an apology, she stepped away from him, sniffling and patting her hair, reaching for the bag containing the chains and pulling them out, one by one. "It'll be sufficient, I'm sure."

Lawrence nodded, reaching for the pile of metal bindings and bringing it into the depths of the cave, where a rock wall signaled the end. Gwen unpacked some of their rations, some dried fruit and meat, and a flagon of water, settling in to wait while Lawrence took hammer and nail to the rear chamber, setting the base for his own restraints. The gypsies had given them solid tent stakes, and he anchored each chain with several. He was taking no chances if Gwen was going to be mere feet away from the monster, even if he had maintained a semblance of control during the last transformation. They had also made plans to chain him at midday the following day, giving them a wide margin before the autumn moon would begin rising.

It was late into the night when he finally finished, though he didn't believe he would rest much at all. His anxiety was palpable at the situation, his fear for Gwen coloring every sense at this point.

* * *

He returned to the fireside at last, spotting Gwen already sleeping in what looked to be a cramped sitting position. Frowning, Lawrence made sure to grab every blanket, fashion the most comfortable setup he could manage, and gently pull the sleeping Gwen onto it, without disturbing her rest. Cushioning her head with his arm, he curled around hers, fitting to her small form with ease. Her steady breathing soothed him immeasurably, and despite the mental turbulence that had been plaguing him for weeks, he fell asleep easily, an arm curved possessively over her waist.

* * *

**Next chapter should be relatively soon...I think... ~Bon**


	5. Chapter 5

**Only one left to go, thanks for sticking with this story! **

* * *

Gwen's pout would have been adorable in any other circumstance, but Lawrence could find no humor in anything at this point. She was standing, arms folded, eyeing the rear of the cave where he was to be housed, chained like a dog, while she prodded him with a silver blade all night. Every hour, on the hour, like clockwork. Like a doctor administering clinical doses of a medicine to a patient.

After they had awoken and eaten, which neither could do much of, Gwen had set to moving all supplies towards the fire, improving the barricade against the weather; the cave was funneling the freezing winter air, making the environment that much less hospitable to the pair. The pure silver blade they had been entrusted with was pulled from its case and grimace at, before being set aside, upon a crate where Gwen would spend the evening using it on Lawrence. The sight of it upset her, and she could barely stand thinking ahead to what would pass this night.

Part of the extreme cold was due to the fact that it was a very clear day, which was helpful, since an overcast of clouds would make it very difficult to gauge time of day and the moon's arrival. The horses had been seen to, given extra food and water, and tied even further away from the cave than before, and out of the wind.

Gwen and Lawrence spent the remainder of their time reminiscing, about his performances, hilarious stories of Ben's interactions with the gypsies, how Gwen had wished to have met their mother. No mention was made of the curse or his father; time and emotion enough had been spent on those painful subjects. Both expressed envy of the gypsy lifestyle, surprising one another, and a good laugh had been had over imagining Lawrence jugging flaming torches while Gwen danced atop a table in colorful skirts.

At last the time came, and Gwen had clung to Lawrence for a moment, her face pressed to his neck, simply breathing him in, memorizing the feel of him against her. Their kiss was slow and deliberate, each blending their feelings, wishes, and faith with the other. And then Lawrence broke away, slowly leading her by the hand to the back of the cave. He situated himself on the cold ground, kneeling, while she took a deep breath before grabbing the first manacle and clasping it tightly, to the point of pain, over his left wrist. She did the same to the right, with determined movements, checking and rechecking the fastenings as if she were a professional. But a professional would be objective, not caring that the restraints were restricting the blood flow to Lawrence's hands, turning them a blotchy purple; a professional would not silently utter prayers that his hands would at least turn numb, rendering him unaware of part of the pain that was going to escalate all through the night.

* * *

Lawrence was reminded of the asylum. Those cold hands binding him with frigid chains to a chair, making the odd detached remark about the "patient", chastising him for resisting. Agonized, he tried to shove away the memories of being tied down, dunked into icy water, giving small electric shocks, having his head prodded and poked at. When his breathing escalated, Gwen calmly took his face in both her hands, making eye contact with him and assuring him it was alright. That there would only be this one last time, and they'd be free of the Wolf. Of the morbid legacy his father had managed to pass down. Of the thing that had killed so very many, ruined so many additional lives forever.

Finally, he was fully restrained. His ankles had been fastened with the metal as well, all of it crisscrossed with lengths upon lengths of chain, weaving in and out of each other and fastened to stakes in the ground and on the walls. It looked like a medieval torture chamber to Gwen's eyes, and she almost grinned at the thought of how any sensible, rational Londoner would react to the sight of such a scene.

Then again, what sensible, rational Londoner was capable of such deep affection and love that they would even bear the mere _thought_ of attempting such a torturous procedure for their love? She had been brought up around so many fake smiles, false inquiries into one's health, concern for someone's daughter's reputation, when in fact they would rejoice heavily at the scandalous news of an elopement or some such event. She was sick of it all, she decided, and would never return to the city or society. The uglier side of life, disaster, mayhem, misery, it all revealed the nastier sides of the people it touched. She would like to think her own father would have helped Lawrence in this situation, but was she sure? In any case, she would not have involved him in such a dangerous matter, and she knew not whether he even believed her alive at the moment. It was better to wait until all was said and done before attempting to reveal herself. If she remained intact enough to do so…

Lawrence rattled his chains, stirring her from her thoughts as he shifted, attempting comfort in the face of metal clasping nearly every inch of his body. She moved forward to stroke his hair, offering what small relief she could from the discomfort, and then moved to stoke the fire, drawing a book from her pack before returning and beginning to read aloud to Lawrence, as she had when he was first taken by the curse. It seemed to calm him greatly, for when she looked up after a time, his eyes had closed and breathing slowed.

* * *

It was just past six o'clock when it began. Gwen knew because she had just checked Lawrence's pocketwatch when she heard the first painful groan. She had never actually seen the change itself, and was both frightened for Lawrence and intrigued, she was ashamed to admit to herself.

She had rushed towards the sound of rattling chains, stopping short at the sight of Lawrence doubled over, breathing harshly. A strange cracking noise filled the air, and Gwen caught her breath at the sight of his hands clenched upon the ground. His fingers were…elongating, the joints jutting out of place and forming some altogether new alignment, while he began to howl with pain. The sleeves of his white shirt ripped straight up to his shoulders, muscles rippling and reforming while fur sprouted from his skin.

She could think of no better time to begin the process, as perhaps the agony of the transformation would mask the first pain from the blade. Retrieving it, Gwen inched forward, swallowing thickly as she hefted the handcrafted weapon in her right hand. When she was scarcely a stride away, she darted forward, quickly slicing into Lawrence's bicep while murmuring a plea for forgiveness that would come to be repeated time after time this night. As she backed away again, a small seeping of red stained the previously-pristine white shirt, a small sizzling noise preceding a small wisp of…_smoke_, rising from the slash she had made in the fabric. _It burned him_. She didn't know whether to feel satisfaction at wounding the curse, or horror that what she was injuring held Lawrence just beneath the surface.

The half-beast, half-man shrieked mid-transformation, the pain from the blade not even noticeable as its spine realigned, vertebrae popping and cracking like dry wood on a fire, agony hunching ever lower in its kneeling position. Gwen covered her mouth with a gloved hand, sickened by the sight and sound. This was the first and last time she would witness any of this, however, and so she had to bear it, for Lawrence.

Blood poured from his mouth, pattering onto the dirt mere inches from his head and creating a disgusting form of mud, as his teeth retreated and morphed, shredding his gums in the process. Even his facial structure was changing, the area around his mouth and nose ballooning out to form a partial muzzle, newborn fangs jutting out over the blackened lips as jawbone cracked and adjusted. As the beast reared back, sending flecks of blood flying as it roared in anguish, the shirt it wore ripped across the chest, revealing a ribcage that was rippling, as each individual bone expanded with echoing crunching noises.

Lawrence's boots had been removed, his feet bared to the chill of the cavern hours earlier. The flesh upon them was currently darkening, rending, as talon-like nails sprouted from every toe, the heel twisting to allow a more canine manner of movement.

* * *

Several moments passed, and finally the shrieks and gasps of pain, accompanied by the popping and crackling of tissue and bone, abated. Tears filled Gwen's eyes as she watched The Wolf, whose back was turned to her, rise to its feet, keeping silent as it scanned the cave, experimentally rattling the chains holding it. When it could find no give, a ferocious growl and accompanying howl escaped its throat, echoing throughout the cavern until Gwen was certain it had reverberated across every inch of the stone walls. Squeezing her eyes shut, she murmured yet another small prayer, hoping her record of church attendance would not impact fulfillment of these pleas too heavily.

When her eyes opened again, The Wolf was watching her. Startled, she backed up a half step, stumbling into the crate she had been settled on for most of the day. Swallowing thickly, she met its chilling, golden gaze, searching for any trace of Lawrence and finding none. The mercy that the beast had shown her before seemed unfathomable in this moment, and she could only hope that Lawrence would gain control as the moon's influence progressed.

Her thoughts were interrupted when it growled again, low in its throat, eyes narrowing as it scanned up and down her form, then casting that evil stare about the length of the cavern again, finally ending by trailing up and down the chains holding its limbs captive.

How on earth was she going to get close enough again to nick it with the silver? It was fully alert, suspicious and enraged, looking as though it would be pacing menacingly if it had the ability. It moved again, trying to take a single step in any direction and failing. That comforted her; its arms seemed to have the most mobility, however, and that was…Usually the method of killing, swipes of those gnarled claws. It could undoubtedly reach her easily if she did not catch it at the right moment and move away fast enough.

Gwen checked the pocketwatch again; nearly thirty minutes into the transformation. Nothing much in the cave except her seemed to hold its attention; maybe if she appealed to it as she had the night they had escaped Abberline? Every hour on the hour? She snorted at herself, and the creature jerked to look at her again, cocking its head to the side, lips peeling back to display the length fangs underneath. It was probably hungry, she realized with a small gulp.

She was more frightened of it than she had ever been; perhaps because her adrenaline was not quite as forced to the surface as it had been in previous encounters; _this_ transformation had felt…Goaded, lured, because they needed to put an end to it _now_. And that dire need had led to her sitting in a cavern several miles from any civilization, across from a beast that would most likely shred her limb from limb if given half a chance. How to catch it off guard?

She could only hope it would grow bored, lazy with inactivity, and perhaps sleep. Did the creature even sleep? She had no idea, and so she stood with quaking limbs, heading for her pack to retrieve her heftiest tome on lycanthropy, opening it for hopefully the last time and scouring page after page for any information on the mannerisms of the creature, once transformed.

There was nothing, and after fifteen minutes and another scanning of the face of the pocketwatch in the flickering firelight, she slammed the dusty tome shut, flinging it aside before moving to stoke up the fire again. She was out of time, and needed to administer the "treatment" again.

Taking deep breath after deep breath, trying to ignore the slightly-echoing harsh breathing coming from the back passageway, Gwen moved quickly to the stone archway leading to the back of the cave, and began shoving crates and boxes about, piling them as high as her strength would permit. This darkened the rear section the creature was housed in, and maybe she would have a safer way of approaching it.

When her impromptu barrier was constructed as best as she could manage with the time constraints, Gwen retrieved the dagger, keeping it in her right hand, and behind the bustle of her skirts, moving slowly back towards the beast that was snuffling loudly and rattling its chains ominously.

When it came into sight, the creature whipped its head around to watch her approach, fangs showing themselves again, but no smarl escaping the blackened lips.

"Lawrence, I'm so sorry. I know you're in there, and that you can somehow hear this, even if you won't remember it. I love you, and you must always remember that, no matter what. We are going to make it through this, and ride right back down through these mountains, and find my father and assure him I am safe, and then we can join the gypsies, or cross the ocean and you can rejoin the acting troupe, or we could be bandits or…" She had been moving closer as she spoke, quenching the fear with all her might, and the creature did not even move once, seemingly entranced by her voice. Once she was within arm's reach, she pulled the dagger forward, quickly crouching and slicing into the beast's thigh before scrambling away as it tried to figure out what she was doing. A strangled yelp sounded, the creature probably being unused to harm.

Regaining her footing, now covered in dirt and fear-induced sweat, Gwen panted, straightening her skirts and grimacing at the smears of blood on the blade she held. The creature had scarcely moved a muscle as long as she kept talking…This was becoming beyond bizarre, but the past few months of her life had been nothing but strange. Looking up at the creature, the glazed look in its eyes was only now dwindling, as it tried to investigate its wound.  
Feeling like she now had an idea of how to approach the rest of the night, Gwen checked the pocketwatch yet again, seeing that she had nearly an hour before the next treatment. Heading back to her things, she retrieved another book, before settling back on the rickety crate she'd occupied all day, and proceeding to read to The Wolf, her voice not quivering in the slightest, bolstered by confidence in her newfound plan.

* * *

Reading to the creature had been effective all night. Gwen rubbed at her bleary eyes, suppressing another yawn as she rose, checking the pocketwatch and ascertaining it was now only one hour to sunrise, then attempting to stretch in her now-completely wrinkled and filthy dress. The Wolf was now reclining as best it could in a crouched position, eyes on her every second, tracing her every movement.

Shutting the book and setting it aside, confident that this would be the last administration of silver, Gwen rose to her feet, wiping the blade carefully with a handkerchief, starting to tell the story of her journey to London to first meet Lawrence, that night in the theater. The creature fell into the strange dreamy state it had been in for most of the night, eyes semi-closing and breathing evening as it listened to her, clawed hands drooping to rest on its knees.

Gwen moved ever closer, as she had several times now, still talking, but something went wrong. She couldn't have seen it coming, but as she approached, the pair of horses outside grew raucous, neighing shrilly, unfortunate wind direction sending the sound filtering straight in to the cave. The noise the animals made roused the beast at the worst time, and it rose to its full height, simultaneously wrenching at the restraints, succeeding in working one arm loose.

Belatedly, Gwen realized they should have found a way to keep it fed, less desperate for food, judging by the reaction it made to the livestock noises…Too late now. Just as Gwen reached it, the arm swung at her, the movement nearly too quick to follow with human eyes. The blade in her hand sliced into its forearm regardless, even as the creature flung her aside, claws slashing into the flash of her abdomen and chest as it sent her crashing into the far wall. The last thing Gwen heard was a satisfied roar, as the rattling of more chains signaled The Wolf releasing itself.

* * *

The creature in question was so occupied with freeing itself that it didn't notice the increasingly-smoking wound Gwen had nonetheless left on it, until the sizzling sound was audible. It was now completely free, and started stalking towards the mouth of the cave, when the pain in its arm began to spread. With a lingering yelp, The Wolf fell to its knees, clutching at its shoulder, where the agony was currently focused. Its clouding yellow gaze moved to the cavern opening, where the early light of dawn was signifying the demise of the full moon, for another four weeks. Summoning its strength for one last weak howl, the thing collapsed to the cave floor, oblivious to its victim lying in the rear chamber, and the blood pooling around her form.

* * *

Awareness returned first. He could hear wind moving through the cave, feel stone and dirt beneath his body, and when his eyes finally cracked open, Lawrence could see every particle in the rock near his face. He was sprawled on his stomach; otherwise unharmed. He was unsure whether to despair or rejoice over the fact that he felt…well, fine. Intact.

Glancing over his body, what flesh he could see among his shredded clothes appeared unscathed, if dirty. He wriggled his fingers experimentally, trying to ascertain if they would morph into claws, draw blood, and rend flesh during the next lunar cycle. He gave up, supposing there was no way to tell…

His head shot up as he suddenly recalled how he may have been saved at all. "Gwen?" He ventured cautiously, shakily climbing to his feet and peering around the cave. There was no answer, only the echoes of his own voice slowly dying away as they reverberated against the stone walls. It was fairly cold, he now realized, the cavern dimly illuminated by the now-dying fire. As he drew closer to the embers, the feeble firelight was cast upon him.

His blood chilled as he raised his hands to his face. He could see a thick layer of grit and soil upon them, undoubtedly from clawing at and writhing upon the ground as the Wolf suffered. But there were…moist smears, something scarlet blended with the dirt on his skin. He felt no pain or injury on himself, and so the brownish-red mixture terrified Lawrence to his very bones. Bringing a hand to his nose, the coppery scent of blood was detectable even by his weak human nostrils.

"Gwen!" His strangled cry was louder this time, strength renewed by the horror coursing through his veins, gripping his insides with a relentless, icy grasp. There was again no response, and he dashed to the entrance of the cave. Maybe she was tending to the horses…But she was nowhere in sight, and the horses were tied outside, huddled together in the bitingly-chilly air.

"Please god, no…" Lawrence muttered. He felt as though he were feverish, immersed in a nightmare while his body fought off some horrible sickness. With jerky, rushed movements, he stoked the fire, tossing wood onto it frantically in an attempt to light and warm the space. At length the flames crackled and danced merrily again, oblivious to the agony Lawrence was in.

Where was Gwen?

Grabbing a flaming log by the uncharred end, Lawrence began a frantic sweep of the cave, which had never seemed so large and ominous. Rounding corners and ducking beneath jagged awnings of rock, he finally froze, having found his way to the spot where he had been tied down. Come to think of it … How had he become unshackled? The realization that the beast had gotten loose hit him when he spotted a gnarled pile of metal on the ground; the chain's links were wrenched out of place and thrown about erratically. The only noise his ears could detect was his own harsh breathing, as he stumbled forward.

A misery-filled wail escaped his lips as the torch illuminated the back wall of the cave. A spattering of blood had been left to trickle downwards, seeming to point at the crumpled figure that lay where the wall met ground, cast aside like a broken doll.

* * *

The cries escaping Lawrence's lips at the sight of Gwen's ravaged body could have woken the dead, to his own ears; and yet, she didn't move a muscle…

He stumbled to her side, blindly sticking his impromptu torch into a crevice in the cave wall, his hands twitching as he hovered over her, torn between pulling her into his arms to assess the damage, and refusal to hurt her more by doing so. He settled for cautiously inching her from her facedown position onto her back, easing her torso into his lap; but the blood that had seeped out from around her had Lawrence nearly blind with tears, frantic to wake her.

The entire front of her dress was soaked with blood, and it was in her hair, across one of her porcelain cheeks, covering the cave floor in a meter-wide radius as well. If she was still alive, she did not have long. Lawrence brought her face to his ear, discerning with a tear-choked gasp that she was indeed still breathing, though shallowly. Several slashes were visible across her chest and stomach, and he could only hope that the many layers to her dress, and her corset's whale bone lining, may have alleviated some of the damage. Her collar was shredded, the fabric flapping open as he moved her, revealing her pale collarbone, bloody slashes showing stark against the bared alabaster skin beneath the ruined bodice of her dress. As he stared, tears fell onto Gwen's cheek, running through the still-wet blood streaks, trailing down her jawline and revealing the whiteness beneath. She had lost too much.

"Please stay with me, Gwen. I would never hurt you…I am so sorry I couldn't stop it. So sorry. Please don't leave me." He pulled her face to his, kissing her cold, slackened lips fervently. "_Please don't leave me." _

Croaking a prayer to whoever and whatever was listening, Lawrence retrieved Gwen's cloak, bundling her in it as tightly as he could to staunch any remaining bleeding, hoping there were no broken bones or internal damage to her abdomen. Hefting her quickly into his arms, he stumbled his way to the cave entrance, not bothering to put on a jacket or his boots, even.

Approaching the horses, they shied away, neighing anxiously, his horse sidestepping his attempts to saddle it. After a moment it calmed down, seeming to sense the urgency in his tone, or perhaps it smelled the blood, and allowed him to saddle it. He didn't bother with the second horse, wanting to keep Gwen securely with him, and cradled her limp form in front of him in the saddle, before giving it free rein to rush down the rugged trail as quickly as it could safely manage.

He could only pray the horse could find its masters' camp before Gwen's time ran out.

* * *

**Promise to get the epilogue out as quickly as I can. xoxo Bon**


	6. Epilogue

**My promised epilogue. I hope the last few lines are as cool to you guys as they were to me. -Bon**

* * *

The sky gazing upon London was dark and murky as chimney smoke, clouds roiling in preparation for the second storm within as many days. A heavy rain had persisted all morning, driving sheets of water against the structures and citizens of the massive city, turning everything sodden and muddy within instants of the downpour starting.

One lone figure was braving the torrential downpour, the solitary form the only visible movement on the street the Conliffe Apothecary was located on. Clad in a lengthy, gray woolen trenchcoat that was now soaked through, hair topped by a thoroughly-drenched, and now-ruined, fedora, the man seemed not to mind the weather as long strides carried him to the door of the small shop.

Ascending the steps in a single bound, the man cast a furtive glance around, before removing the fedora from his dark locks, the hat sending rivulets of rainwater cascading around his boots. He cleared his throat quietly, casting one more cautionary glance around the street, before raising a gloved hand and rapping sharply upon the oak door. It was early in the day, and a Sunday; many inhabitants of the street were securely in bed, foregoing church to avoid the weather, doubling their prayers tonight in lieu of attendance.

The man was not too wary of being seen or caught, trivial matters scarce bothered him these days, though his eyes were haunted and dim, trained on his boots as he stood, head bowed, waiting atop the apothecary stoop. At last the door swung inward, protesting loudly, even over the loud pattering of raindrops. A graying, kind-faced older man stood there, peering out and up into the face of his caller.

"Can I help you…?" He asked, fixing his glasses with a finger as they drooped precariously on his face. He was squinting, as if he had a faint idea who the man at his door was, but needed a little prompting.

"My name is Lawrence. Lawrence Talbot."

The older man's face flickered with recognition, almost unwillingly, and he blanched. "Are you with Scotland Yard? Has progress been made with my daughter's disappearance? Has her body been…"

The younger man fidgeted on the stoop, fingers plucking at the hat he held. "Sir, would you mind if we took this conversation indoors? I've…some grave news for you."

Mr. Conliffe's face paled further, his expression dropping as he abruptly peered around Lawrence's form. "Your kind usually come in packs, as I've seen that Inspector Abberline do…Only enough news for one man to spread?"

"There's been…an incident, Mr. Conliffe. I have a lot to explain to you, and it must be done quickly. We must leave soon." Though the older man's brow furrowed with confusion, he backed up, allowing entry, and Lawrence gestured for the other man to precede him into the apothecary, closing the door himself and letting Mr. Conliffe lead him upstairs into a small receiving room, declining any offer of refreshment, clearing his throat and sorting the timeline of facts in his mind before beginning. "Would you call yourself superstitious or open-minded, Mr. Conliffe…?"

* * *

Mileva released a ragged sigh, carefully wringing out yet another stained washcloth, diluted blood dripping from the material to patter into a basin below it, already full of the rose-tinted liquid. The macabre procedure was a result of laving at Gwen's wounds for the third day in a row, in between cutting away bloodstained clothing, stitching at shredded skin, and administering herbal poultices to wounds that were then bandaged. The entire procedure was being repeated each day, sometimes more often, as the patient's fevered thrashing often ruined the stitching and bandages across her body.

When the wounded Gwen had been brought to Mileva's door, skin drained of color and still dripping blood, the gypsy elder had barely batted an eye, grim resignation occupying the place of expected surprise in her expression. But internally, the extent of her wounds was simply unbelievable to the woman, despite all her years of tending to the results of horseback-riding accidents, mishaps with the dancing bear, and incalculable other injuries caused by the juggling of blades, breathing fire, and the like. She honestly could not understand how the girl, so slight in build and fragile as she appeared to begin with, was still breathing. At first glance, she had not believed anything could even be done to begin to staunch the bleeding, patch the rent flesh back together, or tend to the damaged organs. But she had rolled up her sleeves, snapped concise orders in Romani to all helpers in sight, and got to work, gesturing frantically that the girl be brought in.

The extent of her injuries had been kept from Lawrence, though it could be assumed he knew they were life-threatening, and the jolting, hours-long ride down from the mountains could not have helped. Mileva had sent him to find Gwen's father, partly to distract him and give him a purpose, and mostly to provide for the unthinkable, if Gwen took a turn for the worse, which was entirely plausible, given her condition. She had not regained consciousness in all this time, and Mileva hoped that was a good sign, giving her body time to recuperate from this massive shock.

Gwen moaned loudly, breaking Mileva from her dark thoughts, as she writhed weakly in the cot she had occupied since arriving back in the camp, propped limply against Lawrence's chest as he had arrived in a cloud of dust on the edge of camp. Blood had made its way down the horse's saddle and sides, giving the impression that the animal itself was wounded, and not the motionless passenger on its back. The appearance of the blood-soaked convoy of one had spurred the startled gypsies into action, several men dashing forward to assist an exhausted Lawrence from the saddle, and gently shifting Gwen down between them, taking her as quickly as they could to Mileva's quarters. A frantic Lawrence followed, limbs twitching with agitation as he muttered pleas for help, stumbling after the men until he was pulled aside by a kindly older gypsy woman.

She had led him to a fire, seating him despite his protests, coaxing broth down his throat and fresh clothes onto his back, tossing the stained garments onto a neighboring fire with a grimace, assuring him his lady would be taken care of, and that he need only rest for the time being.

Another moan spurred Mileva into action, reaching into a neighboring basin in which soaked water and lavender, along with another cloth which she retrieved, wringing it out and crossing the small space to place it across Gwen's over-warm forehead, after removing the one that came before it, which had dried and fallen to the side on her pillow. The lavender had been used to soothe the young woman, encouraging sleep in place of laudanum or any other drugs that would have been useful had there been a pharmacy nearby. Instead, herbal remedies were employed, more than Mileva had ever thought to use at once, as she fought to preserve Gwen's flickering life. Some were used to ease pain, some fought infection and encouraged healing, and others, like the lavender, were for Gwen's comfort, such as it was. It was difficult to gauge if the treatments were working, although Mileva was encouraged by the fact that less and less of the cloths she used to wipe at Gwen's skin came away tinged with blood. Her tattered clothes had been cut away, and she'd been dressed in a simple thin robe, which left her wounds easily accessible for treatment.

Time was working against them, however; Gwen had received no nourishment for at least the three days since she had arrived, and Mileva knew her body was working with drastically-depleted resources to knit itself back together. She would have to awaken soon, or else…

* * *

The ride back to the gypsy camp was one of the roughest Lawrence had ever experienced, second only to the ride he had made with the grievously-wounded Gwen just days before. Torrential downpours were striking across the countryside as well as in the cities, turning roads treacherous with mud and unstable stones. And yet Lawrence and his companion had pushed on, braving the thunder, lightning, landslides, and other dangers, to reach the Roma as soon as possible. Not a moment was spared to rest, except that which was needed to exchange horses for fresh ones, as they raced towards the moors where they would find Gwen.

Her father had been told everything, no facts spared, though Lawrence tried to avoid unneeded details when it came to the aftermaths of his transformations, and the like. The graying man had listened in silence, absorbing all of the information as it came, occasionally sipping from his cup of tea. The only visible reaction was a quiet exclamation of joy when it was revealed Gwen had lived through the beast's attack in Blackmoor, as if her father had always believed her still alive. When Lawrence had finished, he leaned forward, knitting his hands together, resting his elbows on his knees as he swallowed heavily, taking in the younger man's shaking hands and nervously-wandering eyes.

"I believe your story, young Lawrence, much as the bewildered cynic in me balks at the concept." His tone was kind, and Lawrence's head snapped up, shocked that the man seemed to have accepted everything so readily. "I have faith in my daughter, and I know she would not be so embroiled in such a fantastical situation if it were not true. The prospect of her being alive after everything is joyous enough, probably coloring my vision, but that will be the end of it. If she is as injured as you say she is, there is clearly no time to spare, and we've got to keep our heads about us. Have you horses ready?"

Lawrence broke out of his surprised trance to nod. "I had hoped you would realize the severity of the situation and accompany me back."

"Indeed I will. Let me pack a bag of some supplies it sounds as though we shall need, and I will join you downstairs in a moment. Take the back door when you leave, and I instead will bring the horses around. We cannot risk you being recognize, am I correct?" Lawrence nodded, his eyes downcast again, and Mr. Conliffe rose, with vigor unexpected of his years, and left the room. Lawrence's eyes, roving the room again as he stood, fell upon several issues of the city's newspaper, scattered across a side table. A headline stuck out to him, and his blood chilled as he crossed the room, hoping against hope that the bold, black letters did not say what he thought they did.

Sure enough, as he moved the top paper out of the way, the second one in the pile spat a loud message at him: INSPECTOR GRAVELY WOUNDED BY BLACKMOOR BEAST, BACK IN LONDON FOR TREATMENT.

* * *

"She is no worse, my son, but no better as well. I fear for her, much." Mileva's voice was quiet, and she spared no time to add any mysterious phrasing to her speech, for once. That small detail alone rattled Lawrence more than anything else she could say.

"Her father is here. He should see her first." Lawrence's voice was a low murmur, as he stepped aside to allow Gwen's father entrance to Mileva's quarters, alone. He had not seen his daughter in weeks, had been led to believe she was _dead_, and being faced anew with the prospect of losing her had to be agonizing, although the gentleman had remained remarkably unruffled throughout the whole ordeal. Perhaps he had not entirely believed, until now, with the proof of the beast's might in front of him. He took his medicine bag with him, inspiring some hope that perhaps an additional treatment could be administered to Gwen.

Lawrence cast off his heavy trenchcoat, glad that the rain had finally ceased, and a clear sky was overlooking the camp. There was nothing to do but wait, so he tossed the coat upon the grass, soaked with evening dew, and knelt before the fire, staring into the bright flames as if they might tell the future.

About an hour later, Mr. Conliffe emerged from the tent, looking weary, but not as grim as expected. He muttered a thanks to the gypsy man who led him to the fire Lawrence was seated at, and settled himself before it as well.

"My daughter appears to be surprisingly well, given that she has survived an attack that probably should have been fatal," he said, directing his words to Lawrence but also focusing his gaze on the flames. "You did well to bring her where you did, Lawrence. And I hope you haven't been blaming yourself for this dreadful occurrence, my boy, as neither I nor my daughter do, I am certain. You've done what you could with horrific odds and luck, and my daughter still breathes. I think that is all anyone could ask for, really. Now we wait. She's been tended to by a woman probably more skilled than any doctor I have ever met, and has two handsome men waiting upon her awakening. It won't be long now." The man spoke with assurance, casting a kind, if tired, smile at Lawrence, before rising and asking politely where he might rest for the night.

As he was led away, Mileva herself appeared, looking older and more worn than Lawrence had ever seen her. She beckoned to him, leading the way back to her tent, and ushering him inside. "Talk to her, my son," she whispered. "Call her back as only you can." With a quiet swish of skirts and a muted rattling of beads, Mileva disappeared back into the night.

Lawrence bowed his head for a moment, before ducking beneath the curtain guarding Gwen, and moving quickly to her side. His heart caught in his throat as he looked at the love of his life, pale and unresponsive, covered in bandages and cloths, looking so very tiny in the cot she'd been placed in. Her mahogany hair, which he had always found so beautiful, lay fanned out on her pillow, a stark contrast to the pale material. Her chest rose and fell with the slightest of movements, her lips paler than he'd ever seen. Swallowing thickly, he knelt at the bedside, carefully grabbing one of the pale hands laying at her sides, and pressing a fervent kiss to the back of it, to the palm, to each finger.  
Swiping irritably at the tears forming in his eyes, Lawrence cleared his throat, beginning to murmur quietly. "You've been so strong. Even before. I warned you, everyone warned us, the risk we were taking, tackling the beast and in such isolation…But you knew, somehow you knew it would work, but…At this price, Gwen? I refuse to have paid for my release with you. With your goodness, your faith, your stubborn determination to fight all odds for my damned soul. It can't end like this, and I won't allow it. Did you hear your father? He's here, I brought him for you Gwen…You know what he said to me? He believes that your _corset, _that damned contraption, is what saved you. The whale boning or some such part of it, protected you fairly well from…the beast's claws, and its tightness helped the bleeding…Anyways, you've got to wake up now, open those beautiful eyes and say you told me so, that you were right all along, because you were…You were right to believe in us, Gwen, that we could beat everything. We may have to go into hiding now, but didn't we agree the gypsy life was appealing?" A choked laugh passed his lips, mingling with a sob, and he reached his other hand out to stroke back Gwen's hair, to run it along her jaw line.

He talked to her for over an hour, telling her stories, begging her to wake up, to get better. At length his voice grew hoarse, and he raised himself from his kneeling position stiffly, bending over Gwen's prostrate form to press a kiss to her chilled lips, maintaining his grip on her hand. As his lips met hers, Lawrence felt something, a subtle, barely-noticeable pressure upon his own fingers. Eyes widening in shock, he leaned back, glancing down at their linked hands. As he watched, Gwen's hand contracted again, eliciting a stronger version of the pressure he had just felt. His shocked gaze shot to her face, and sure enough, Gwen's blue eyes were open. They were squinted and fluttering with the effort of staying open, but her eyes were open and on his. A slight smile slowly curved her lips, and her color was already returning slightly.

Lawrence was unsure of what to do; scream with joy, pull her into his arms, run to tell her father? But doing any of that could break the spell, could cause her to lose consciousness again…In the end he was too rooted to the spot with disbelief, and could only kneel beside her again, bringing her hand to his lips again and again as tears of relief clouded his vision.

* * *

Mr. Conliffe waved goodbye with a wink and smile upon his face, turning his horse south. Several weeks had passed, another full moon as well, since the one under which Lawrence was cured. His business was finished; he had ascertained his daughter was going to be fine, she was in the best of care with the man she loved, and she was where she belonged. Now he had to return to London, look after the apothecary, and await a letter in several weeks, arriving under the disguised sender Emily Hudgens, apprising him of the situation. He knew everything would work out, now.

Dozens of gypsies waved back in their own gestures of farewell, several children and dogs following him for nearly the first mile of his journey, yelling and barking happily.

At last he was out of sight, and everyone returned to their work. A pale Gwen, bundled in a thick cloak and cradled in Lawrence's arms as they waved farewell, lowered her hand and pressed her face to his neck. "Thank you for fetching him."

Lawrence's mouth quirked in a smile, a gesture that was more and more easily obtained these days, to Gwen's delight, and he pressed a lingering kiss to her temple. "You did all the work, recovering like that. I just had to meet my new father-in-law."

She laughed lightly, wrapping her arms around his neck as he turned to carry her back to bed. Only a fraction of her strength was back, and they were not risking anything, keeping her bedridden despite her half-hearted protests.

Once inside, Lawrence laid Gwen down, layering several quilts over her before reclining next to her himself, keeping her still-frail form caged with his own body. Running a hand through the thick strands of her hair to soothe her back to sleep, he began to recite lines from another Shakespeare play he had performed, one with a much brighter mood than the _Hamlet_ she had met him in the midst of.

"Are you sure

That we are awake?

It seems to me

That yet we sleep, we dream…"

* * *

When Gwen's father arrived home, he found several backdated issues of London newspapers littering his stoop. He liked to subscribe to several, as he could usually gauge correct facts by averaging what each said into one complete newstory. As he picked up the messy stack, he scanned the headlines, his expression growing darker with each issue that had printed after the last full moon. SEVERAL DOCKWORKERS FOUND MAULED TO DEATH. "BEAST" REPORTED WANDERING ALONG THE THAMES. INSPECTOR ABBERLINE MISSING DURING INVESTIGATION.

His hands shook as he rifled through each grim report, and he glanced up at the darkening evening sky, the full moon already visible in its clarity, just as a bloodcurdling howl rent the quiet evening air.

* * *

**Thank you for reading. xoxo Bon**


End file.
